


Reaching Towards Understanding

by Lys ap Adin (lysapadin)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M, Purple Prose, first-person narration, possible fangirl japanese, unwarranted melodramatics, varied pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-16
Updated: 2000-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysapadin/pseuds/Lys%20ap%20Adin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Heero and Duo fumble towards a mutual understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Don't Understand

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic, reposted for archival purposes.

What the hell are you doing? I don't understand it.

We're supposed to be friends, just friends, right? That is, if people like us are even allowed to *have* friends. I have my doubts. But I can handle being friends with you. It's strange, it's foreign, but I'm adjusting to this sensation of kinship with you.

I'm not sure it's friendship anymore. Not entirely. Maybe it's just a strange limbo in between, where the two of us share dinners and conversation and slowly feel out each other's depths.

Then why did you hug me tonight, wiry arms wrapping tightly around my shoulders briefly, just long enough for me to catch the scent of your shaving lotion and your skin? Why did you catch my hand briefly on our way out of the movie theater, our fingers twisting together and then sliding apart?

Why do I care so much what it means when I look up and find your eyes on me?

What is this that you're doing to me? I don't understand.


	2. Touch

Sometimes I ache to be touched so much that I want to scream. It's almost a tangible pain, when I wrap my arms around myself and rock slightly, trying to satisfy this formless need.

If I try hard enough, I can *almost* feel the phantom arms descending on my shoulders, strong and warm and offering the sense of security that I'm craving. It's never enough, though.

You. I think I would like maybe to be touched by you. I think that in you there is something that could possibly fill my emptiness, if you would just offer it to me. There are moments when all I want to do is crawl inside your skin and know that you will hold me safe. Once I started touching you, though, I'm afraid I would never be able to stop, never be able to get enough. The brief ephemeral contacts we've shared--my fingers twined with yours for too-short seconds, your breath gusting past my ear in a surprised whoosh when I lower my guard for an instant--these things prove to me that you are a drug, a drug that I would gladly be addicted to.

I think my need for you may be my undoing.


	3. Where Are You?

Where are you? I haven't heard from you in a week, and I don't know what to think of that. Normally you call every couple of days, maybe to check in on me, sometimes to ask if I'm interested in dinner or a movie.

I haven't heard from you in a week... and it's odd that I should miss you this much. I don't miss my other--friends--this much when contact lapses. Why are you so special?

Where are you? It's strange, but I miss hearing your voice on the other end of the telephone connection, your laughter as you share a new joke or a tidbit of gossip.

I'm an idiot, reading too much into this sudden silence of yours, aren't I? I shouldn't have assumed we were anything closer than friends, shouldn't have assumed you were interested in more.

Was it something I said? I know I'm not good with words. Was it something I did? If it doesn't involve a mission, I'm not good at reacting properly.

I miss you.


	4. Three a.m.

Did you miss me this past week?

God knows I missed you. I thought that if I distanced myself a little, the need would lessen. They do say out of sight, out of mind.

But you never leave me, even when you're miles away.

My hand hovers over the telephone, wobbling uncertainly. Should I call you? I crave being able to hear your voice. Would it bother you that I've called? It's three a.m. You're probably asleep. I shouldn't disturb you.

I can't sleep. Why am I torturing myself like this? Why do I want to believe you'd be anything but annoyed with me for waking you up in the middle of the night?

I ought to have known better than to cut myself off from you like that. I shouldn't have tried it. You're a drug, ice that burns and freezes me, a sensation that I can't get my fill of. I know I'm not strong enough to hold myself back from you. I need you so much it hurts to be this empty without you.

My hand makes the decision for me, dials your number automatically, fingers moving certainly across the keypad. Is it sad that I don't have to tell them which buttons to press? They know your number better than I know my own.

My voice sounds breathless in my own ears as you, voice sleep-fuzzed but alert, answer the phone.

~Hey, want some cookies? I have some, freshbaked.

You must think you're dreaming, because you sound confused.

~What, don't you ever get the urge to bake at midnight?

You're so silent... You're probably getting ready to tell me off for bothering you. God, I'm an idiot sometimes.

~Come on, it'll be fun. You'll be up in a couple of hours anyway.

It *is* surreal... but I haven't been able to sleep for a week. Baking cookies at midnight was only the latest in a long string of nocturnal diversions.

~Sugoi! I'll be over in a few minutes... start brewing some coffee, and break out the milk.

You said yes, sounding hesitant and relieved, all at once. Miracles do still happen.

Maybe now at least I'll be able to sleep at night again.


	5. Entwined

My first thought when the phone rang was that something was wrong and that I was needed on a mission. The second came when I saw your number on the caller ID, and I panicked, blindingly afraid that something was wrong with you.

Why was that feeling so much worse, knotting my stomach and tightening my throat?

Cookies at three a.m. It's something only you would ever think of.

Maybe I'm a little testy, to have been yanked out of a sound sleep for this surreal moment with you. Maybe I'm a little irritated that I'm allowing you to come over as if you hadn't been completely silent for the past week.

Maybe I'm just relieved that you haven't decided you're bored with me yet.

Warm cookies at three-thirty in the morning. Hot coffee to wash away the dulling sleepiness, and cold milk sweet on my tongue, balancing the sweetness of the cookies and the rich chocolate chips. We sit here in my kitchen, the window still dark with night as you chat idly about everything and nothing.

Have you been sleeping? I don't think you have... there are hollows under your eyes and shadows within. I'm tempted to ask you what has been going on, but I fear to tread to near the invisible line between friendship and... not-friendship. But I worry anyway.

The cookies are good.

You yawn, and I can hear your jaw pop: that's how widely you've opened your mouth.

I don't think you *have* been sleeping. The coffee doesn't seem to have much effect on you, as your eyes droop shut and your head nods.

A split-second decision. Today is a Sunday, I think... you won't have to go to work. So I hook one of your arms over my shoulder and guide you to my bedroom. You can sleep for a while in my bed, and I'll spend some time watching television or on the computer.

You're just awake enough to help me work your boots off before you sprawl bonelessly across the mattress. It's up to me now to manuever you beneath the sheets.

You mumble sleepily, the words too slurred for me to make out even the syllables, but you reach out, fumbling for something. You catch my hand in yours, and clasp it tightly as you start to snore.

I don't think I can extricate my fingers from yours... not without the possibility of a damage, which is unacceptable.

Well, I could use a few more hours of sleep, too. I scoot you over a little in the bed and stretch out on top of the blankets, my hand in yours still.

Thank you for the cookies.


	6. Just a Little Longer

The first thing I'm aware of as I drift awake is that I've managed to sleep for once. Surprising...

I'm warm, almost a little too hot. It feels so good, though, to just lie here being lazy that I'd don't want to move and throw the covers off yet. Even if they are a little heavy...

Wait... I only ever sleep with one or two blankets, maybe a sheet...

Consciousness is creeping in slowly.

I blink bleary eyes open and stare at the late afternoon sun slanting across the bedroom's ceiling, turning the off-white plaster rosy.

My bedroom window faces east, though.

And my fingers are locked tightly around yours, entwined. And I'm nestled quite comfortably against your chest, next to your steady heartbeat.

Shock. I don't quite remember how I got here.

Your voice rumbles deep in your chest; I listen to it, fascinated. Eventually I remember that I need to listen to the actual words, too.

It's so hard to concentrate, though. Can't I just stay here for a little while longer? I need you to hold me... just a little longer, please? Keep the hollowness away for just a little longer...

My hand is still in yours. I can't bring myself to loosen the grip, even though both of our hands must be bloodless from the tight grasp I have on you. And you aren't moving away, not yet.

You smell good: a little of soap, a little of sweat, a little of metal. And you're telling me I practically fell asleep sitting up, and that then I wouldn't let go of you.

My skin feels hot as I listen. How embarrassing... but you will let me stay, just a little longer?

The moment of truth arrives. I have to tell you I haven't slept in the past week... please don't ask me why. Maybe I'll tell you someday.

As always, you know when not to press an issue.

And you continue to hold me. Just a little longer.


	7. We Should Talk

I've had a lot of time to think today. I didn't have much choice. First it was your grip on my hand that wouldn't let me move from the bed, Then somehow I drifted off, and when I woke up at my usual eight a.m., somehow we came to be curled together like...

You barely moved all day long. It makes sense now that you say that you haven't slept in a week.

I slept off and on all day. I think I'll be lucky if I can get any sleep tonight. And in between catnaps and pretending that I wasn't hungry or desperate for a bathroom trip, I thought.

Mostly about you.

Sometimes about me.

And a lot about you and me, and the peculiarities of the relationship that finds me holding you and you holding me like the two of us never want to let each other go.

Your ears turned the most interesting shade of red I've ever seen when you finally woke up and realized that we're just one big tangle of each other and blankets, and that you've been nuzzling your face into my shirt for the ten minutes it took you to wake up.

What do you want for breakfast?

We should talk, I know we should. But it's my way to avoid these kinds of confrontations. Words are not my chosen medium. And if I don't move, and soon, my body may never forgive me for lying perfectly still for this many hours.

That was relief in that soft sigh and the subtle relaxation of your muscles. Why are you so glad that I haven't asked any questions or addressed this issue of what we are?

Are you really as uncertain about this as I am? You seem so sure of yourself, always so confident that I sometimes envy you.

One by one, you uncurl each of the fingers coiled against mine. The movement is so slow that I believe that you don't want to let go.

I flex my hand, willing some life back into it, and you wriggle to a sitting position. This is the first I've been able to see your face completely all day long, and the expression on it is unreadable.

Something about it feels wrong to me, but I don't know what, or why, or how I could make it better. I want to fix it for you, whatever it is. I just don't know how.

I'll be in the kitchen.


	8. Fast Enough

I'm beginning to wonder if there's anything on this planet that will break that ice-cool calm you project. Obviously waking up like lovers might doesn't faze you one little bit. Letting me cling to you until you decided you needed to feed your face doesn't seem to bother you, either.

Damn it.

I wrap my arms around myself. So empty inside... Come back. Please come back. I don't care if it's only to humor your crazy friend.

I knew this would happen. I knew it. I'll never be able to get enough of you now. Never. I could go to sleep with your heartbeat in my ear every night for the rest of my life, and wake up listening to you breathe every morning till I die, and it still wouldn't be enough.

Somebody should tell you how dangerous you are.

I'm so cold now. Cold and empty.

I'm not being reasonable. Good sense tells me I ought to know that I didn't want to say anything, didn't want to hear anything, that might have ruined the moment. That trying to explain would possibly only have broken it. That I'm so scared that it will shatter anyway, and I'll be left remembering the feeling of your arms for the rest of my life and not be able to do anything about it.

I've got to get out of here before the smell of you on your sheets drives me insane.

You'll be in the kitchen. I'll just tell you goodbye and be on my way.

If I run fast enough, maybe I can leave this aching hurt behind.

If I tell myself that fast enough, I might even fool myself into believing it.


	9. Naming the Beast

I'm rehearsing the mission plan while I wait for you. Any minute now you're going to walk through that door. Maybe you'll sprawl in one of the chairs at the table, next to the glasses with dried milk pooled in the bottom of them. Maybe you'll lean against the counter and watch me while I fry eggs.

You'll probably choose the counter, so that you can watch.

Then I'll look up at you. I'll ask if you're ready to talk. You will either say yes, or you will say no.

You'll probably say no.

Then I'll force myself to talk. For this I will make myself be brave, and I will confront this nameless thing between us. Legends say that naming the unnamed creature tames it, makes it docile. I will give a name to what is between us. I think I will call it love.

Then something will happen. I don't know what. This plan of mine breaks down with the infinite possibilities of your reaction.

I hope you will agree that the name I've chosen is good.

Your footsteps are padding down the hall. I season the eggs with careful hands that must not shake.

You're at the door. You've stopped.

Going home?

This was not in the plan. I turn and I look at you, and I don't like what I see. Your old mask is so firmly in place that I don't think I could move it in a million years.

But we need to talk.

How can you not be interested in talking? What's going on here? You're not supposed to be saying these things!

There is an iron band squeezing tightly around my throat. I can't swallow; I can't speak. I can only watch you as you turn around and walk away.

Behind me, the eggs are starting to burn.


	10. Hopelessly Addicted

I walked away. You let me do it. Somehow I found the guts to walk out the door of your apartment, and I didn't even look back.

It's better this way, isn't it? This way you don't have to say whatever it is you were steeling yourself to be able to say. This way I don't have to listen to you saying it. Everybody's happy.

And I lie badly. I'm not happy. I'm miserable. When I close my eyes, I see you standing at your stove, disbelief in your eyes. If I look hard enough, I can see the hope cracked in two.

I could have sworn that I was being the strong one. The noble one. How come you always end up being the hero?

I haven't slept again since I left your place. Was it two or three days ago? I don't know anymore. I don't know anything right now, except that wrapping my arms around a pillow is a poor, sad substitute for wrapping my arms around you. I've tried to sleep, I swear I have, but I'm too restless. Isn't it wonderful? I've spent one night sleeping with you, and I'm already hopelessly addicted to the feeling of your body lying next to mine.

I'm sorry. If I called you, would you let me say that much at least? I won't ask you to forgive me, that would be too much too soon, but I'd like to apologize. For being an idiot. For being selfish. For being in love with you.

I just want to hear your voice.

Sluggishly, I move to the telephone. And I stare at it. Do I dare? I've had a lot of nerve in my life, but this... takes real courage. This takes making myself vulnerable. I'm scared.

I lift my hand to the receiver.

The phone rings.


	11. Rationalizing

I had thought I understood hell. I was wrong. Hell was watching you leave, and not being able to do anything about it.

By the time my body unfroze and I could stumble forward, you were gone. Out the door and halfway or more up the street. Out of my reach.

That was the beginning of my sojourn through hell. It hasn't been pretty. I couldn't sleep in my bed. The sheets smell like you. But I can't make myself change them.

I've forced myself to work, a little. But anyone at the office can tell you I'm barely worth the coffee that keeps me going.

And right now I would give anything to go back and fix what I did wrong. I had a chance to talk to you, and I didn't take it... Is there such a thing as a second chance? I wish there was.

I sit here, and I'm tearing myself into shreds over this.

You left the platter you brought the cookies in over here. I realized that this morning, when I made myself start cleaning up the kitchen. A tray half-empty, covered in crumbs and stale chocolate chip cookies. A pathetic sight.

It'd be a shame for you to lose the tray. Both of us grew up with notions of thrift.

Rationalizing something in your own mind is a tricky thing.

I ought to return the tray. Definitely. It doesn't belong to me.

But when it comes to you, I find that I have all sorts of skills I didn't realize I had.

Returning it empty would be rude, when it arrived here covered with cookies.

I don't have any chocolate chips in the house, so they have to be sugar cookies. Sugar cookies are good too, though. I hope you won't mind.

There is something soothing in the process of measuring flour and sugar, butter, eggs, milk, the baking powder, the vanilla extract. A precise recipe with consistent results. Was that my mistake with you, to expect that I could deal with you according to a plan?

I think that was part of it.

My hands shake while I pile cookies into concentric rings on the tray. If they're arranged just right, it'll all be okay. I can't afford to make any more mistakes.

They shake even more as I dial your number.

The phone rings. And rings. And rings one more time, and I'm about to hang up and... do something. I don't know what.

You finally answer, and your voice doesn't sound too good. Mine probably doesn't either.

~Do you want your tray back?

So maybe it isn't the best way to start a conversation. I'll be damned if it isn't the only thing I can think of right now.

~Your tray. You left it over here the other day. Do you want it back?

Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes.

~All right. I'll bring it by soon.

Hang up the phone. Take a deep breath. And smile for the first time in the past three days.

Maybe there are second chances.


	12. Not Too Much

You sounded like hell on the phone. I've never known you not to be in control, but I'm not so sure that you were as in control as you normally are.

Will you knock when you get here, or will you just walk in like you normally do? It's a trivial question, but it's not. Are we still friends, more than friends, or less than friends?

I hug this pillow to my chest and sit curled up on the couch, watching the door and waiting. Waiting, but not hoping. Not much, anyway.

How do I know you just don't want to get rid of the tray and not think about me ever again, anyway? I don't. So it's best not to hope. Not too much, anyway.

I sigh and check the clock. You called five minutes ago. Only five minutes ago. A small eternity ago. It's a twenty minute trip between your place and mine. Damn...

I'm so tired. I can't keep this insomnia thing going for much longer. My eyes burn and itch, and nothing helps, not even the eyedrops. The only real remedy would be sleep.

I look at the clock. Six minutes. Damn. I close my eyes. I don't take to waiting easily. Not at all...

That's the last thing I remember thinking.


	13. Presumptuous

You look like shit.

I let myself in, when you didn't answer my knock. The door was unlocked anyway, so you were expecting me.

Gaunt cheeks, deep bruised hollows beneath your eyes, and clothes too wrinkly. You've been harder on you than I've been on me.

I want desperately to wake you up, so that I can explain to you everything. But I don't dare. You need the sleep, if you're so exhausted that you can fall asleep leaning over a pillow in your lap.

I leave the cookies on the kitchen table. They're wrapped up in plastic, so they'll stay good for a while.

Now what do I do?

This is more of a second chance than I'd imagined. I lug you into your bedroom and tuck you into bed--again--and then hesitate.

Sleeping, you squeeze your pillow, frowning vaguely.

My hand reaches out, smoothes the curve of your cheek... you move your face, following my hand. Would it be presumptuous of me to stay?

Maybe it would be. Maybe I'll only end up ruining my second chance too, but my instincts are telling me that I should stay. I didn't listen to them before, which was a mistake.

I kick off my shoes and crawl under the covers with you, laying my head against your shoulder and draping an arm across your chest. I don't plan on letting you go anywhere... not till we've had our talk.

Breathing in the scent of your shampoo, I fall asleep.


	14. While You Sleep

You still snore.

It's a crazy thing to think of, the first thing after opening my eyes, but it's true. You're snoring, your head resting on the pillow next to mine, relaxed. Your mouth hanging slightly open, and the soft rumble of your breath gusting in and out of it.

I remember how much it used to bother me when we were rooming together on those missions where one wasn't enough, but two were really too much. It kept me up for hours at night, till I could have cheerfully smothered you with my pillow in my frustration at not being able to sleep.

God, what are you doing here, anyway, with your arm pinning me to the bed while you sleep? It's damned cheeky of you. What if I had to go to work this morning, huh?

It's just as well that I took the week off. But the thought's there.

Well, I guess I'll just have to watch you while you sleep. Like anyone would turn down an opportunity to do that. I think I'm the only one you trust enough to sleep in front of, though.

I was an idiot, wasn't I? I think I must have been, to walk out on you without at least taking a chance to find out what you might have had to say. I'm sorry.

Your fingers flex and curl a little on my shoulder. I like this feeling of just being with you. I think it's better than anything else I could possibly ever experience, and that's including sex.

I reach up and cover your hand with mine. Neither of us is going anywhere until we work this out, one way or another. I close my eyes to wait for you while you sleep.

The next time I open them, I find myself staring back into your eyes.


	15. The Most Perfect Thing

It must be the most perfect thing in the world to lie here and watch your eyes drifting open, two lazy flowers unfurling secrets while I wait.

I'm sorry.

We say it simultaneously, and stop together, and I'm sure I must look as foolish as I feel.

You smile wryly. Maybe we ought to stop meeting like this, you suggest.

I hope not.

Am I as fervent as I sound in my own ears?

Your eyes change, a little, soften and darken. I'd like to wrap myself in them.

Yes, I mean that.

The hand resting on mine lifts away; it's a painful loss. You brush your fingers over my cheek, lightly, before threading them into my hair. We never break eye contact as you pull my head closer to yours and our lips brush across each other's, gentle. Our first kiss. My first kiss.

You pull back, just a little, maybe wary. Maybe scared. Are you afraid you've overstepped the bounds, the unwritten rules of this game? Don't be.

Duo, I love you. Never go away from me again... please?

You make a choked noise in your throat, and you open and close your mouth several times. Finally, you just burrow into my chest, breath hot against my throat, like you're trying to bury yourself in me. As I work my arms around you, holding tightly, I can start to feel the tears falling on my skin.

Don't cry. Please don't cry... I don't want to hurt you anymore.

A shudder ripples through your body, and it's muffled laughter. If you're this happy, I just want you to know that it's a strange way of showing it.

Then my heart stands still as you whisper back to me that you love me too.

I was wrong. This is the most perfect thing in the world.


	16. Undoing

I'm sorry.

We both say it at the same time, and it's really sort of funny, in a twisted sort of way. You're an entirely different kind of beautiful when you're trying not to look embarrassed.

Maybe we ought to stop meeting like this...

Not that I want to, mind you. It's just that... well...

I blink at you rapidly as, in all seriousness, you say what I'm thinking, your eyes already frosting over slightly with anticipated pain.

Did you... do you mean that?

God... oh, God, you do. I've never seen such a serious expression on your face. Never.

I have to touch you, make sure you're real... I reach for your face, and I'm praying that you are. If this is a dream... it mustn't be a dream, it mustn't.

Your skin, smooth, and your hair, silk and crisp between my fingers. Wonderfully real. And your intent eyes, locked on mine as I pull us closer together, never wavering... and I touch my mouth to yours, too brief a contact, but I'd never get enough of you with a thousand years of kisses.

Oh, God, what am I doing? I retreat a little, I have to. Rejection at this close a range will kill me, I swear it will.

You whisper--my name. That you--that you--me--staying--

There's a brick in my throat, and speaking is impossible. Completely impossible. The only thing I can do is what I want most: to put myself as close to your body as I can while we're both still dressed. Thank God you understand and hold me tightly. It feels better than I dared to hope.

It's not till I feel your throat move as you speak that I realize I'm crying, and that we're on the verge of another misunderstanding.

I can't help the laughter. We've got to work on this communication issue.

I love you, Heero.

You squeeze me enough to make my ribs creak a little, and I can feel your face buried in my hair. I was right: you are going to be my undoing.

I look forward to it.


End file.
